


Don’t Speak

by doomingdawn



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canada, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Smut, Families of Choice, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gay, Interracial Relationship, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Moving In Together, Romance, Slice of Life, Smut, Years Later, it's honestly mainly just fluff and happy gays and flawless OtaYuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-09-11 15:19:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8995453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomingdawn/pseuds/doomingdawn
Summary: On the eve of his nineteenth birthday, superstar Yuri Plisetsky announced plans for a one week vacation to his private team. Shocked at the competitive workaholic’s desire for rest, they encouraged him without a second thought. His break allowed for meaningful reflection and a long desired rendezvous. Now, his lover Otabek Altin wants to be by his side during a season of training in Vancouver, where seeds are planted and dreams grow strong.





	1. Finally

**Author's Note:**

> Just binge watched all of YOI after much anticipation. Season one left me feeling some type of way. Needed to get this brief idea out there, eep.
> 
>  **update:** This continuous story became... long(er). Most things so far have safely been PG-13, but certain anxieties are a bit heavy and somewhat more adult (I wouldn't want my teen self worrying about these things period, even if I did). Also, I will make sure that **all chapters whose titles are in Russian are where the smut are.** This will be for those who wish to avoid it and, perhaps more likely, for those who only came for it. I'd call the slice-of-life style and attempt to focus on gentler prose mature over explicit, though.

Otabek Altin, Kazakhstan’s own figure skating glory, was twenty-two now. As skilled and popular as he was, he chose early retirement above all else, seeking professional training casually. His entertainment roots permitted a seamless segue into business, which allowed for his stoic, individualistic sociability and desire for economic mobility to thrive. He would climb up the fiscal ladder with ease, but for now, his adventures relied upon the wealth of yesteryear. His polar opposite in terms of accomplishment, Yuri Plisetsky focused entirely on his athletic career after a jaw dropping gold medal at Grand Prix; whereas the elder’s growth was professional and intrapersonal, the younger’s later teenage years became a pilgrimage of internal duress and subsequent development. Their not so sudden friendship grew more intense as the months passed, but even at their closest, there was something left to be craved. Some unspeakable torture, some inexplicable burden. It started when Otabek began looking out for Yuri, and when Yuri started effortlessly withholding his outwardly turned cruelness from Otabek. It never ended.

Yuri rocked on the back of his heels, balancing the soreness to and fro as if distributing the pain would alleviate his discomfort. His legs ached without permission, backside pressed against the countertop of a luxurious Japanese hotel suite’s miniature bar. With one arm tucked against his chest, the back of its hand relaxing his other elbow, the boy sipped coffee sweetened with heavy cream and flavored syrup. It was terrible for him. He hadn’t pulled his scarf off, untied his boots or drawn his hood. He was too fixated on the sugar, what it was doing to him. Over the course of his senior track, he had become very well acquainted with how prone to stress he was. Not typical anxiety, but something more. Lots of anger, he was told, and he realized where it came from - what sadness or pressure he might still have to sift through. He was obsessed with this idea of being better one day, being older. Growing up and being perfect, immaculate. Through phone calls, video chat, text messaging, he told Otabek all of this. There was no limit to how gross he felt them as a couple, magnetic, digital chests pressed together, pounding hearts flushed, but he never made a move. He was caught between justifying it as a responsibility the taller endured and shaking the idea off altogether. Too hopeful.

He shook his head, the long blond locks hugging its side, swaying where they hung beneath his sweater. He faced the room’s front door, heart skipping a beat when he heard the knob turn. It had been nearly half a year since he had last seen Otabek in person, and his reaction made it obvious. Only calm enough to put his mug down without spilling it, he walked and then jogged to the other, disregarding what suitcases his guest carried behind him. It wasn’t a nod or a handshake (they had moved past these phases). They always hugged, but Yuri jumped, wrapping his slender lower limbs around the bulky lad’s waist instead, pressing his forehead against the man’s neck without a second thought. Even this was dangerously affectionate, and the daring performer only had the mental strength to act with such love because of clear signs and their confidence. Words which meant something, tempting insinuations. Suggestive, lyrical advances on Otabek’s part. Yakov had noticed this connection forming long ago and was critical of their differences, but now was the time, now if not ever before, now to never not have been now.

Yuri hopped down and muttered his version of an apology. “I got excited.”

Otabek kicked the door shut and stared at him. Their eyes connected and Yuri didn’t calm down; he failed to steady his heart entirely. Perhaps fate brought them there, and the knowledge of that luck, or that privilege or fortune, encouraged them. Otabek pressed his palm against Yuri’s jawline, his fingers threading through the back of his confidant’s flowing locks. Nothing new yet, not here. He had marveled at the younger’s cherubic, modelesque appearance before. And Yuri had crafted many comments, appreciating Otabek’s own figure, claiming his personality possessively, swooning over his musculature and daydreaming absentmindedly. 

Yuri’s voice quivered. “I missed you.”  
“Yeah?” It was different for Otabek to tease him. “How much?”  
Yuri pressed his lips together, and sustaining his grip, the elder pulled him closer. 

A long and deep kiss. Otabek didn’t expect a reply. He didn’t want one. He tilted his head to slide further into his companion’s mouth, not ferociously but to allow for the perimeter of his lips to snap against Yuri’s, a wet noise rising above their heavy breaths. A wet streak traced the contour of the shorter’s cheek, his light skin glistening beneath a tear. Otabek pulled back, alarmed. Yuri clung to his front, pressing his face against his sure lover’s chest and smiled.

“Thank you.”  
“For what?”  
“For loving me.”


	2. With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't feel this warranted a separate work because it's in the same fast forwarded verse. Cheers!

Yuri never did get taller, but his hair got longer. Bright and lively; blond, and still wavy, but it was easier to straighten now. It was odd, to miss the glitz and glamor of tight skating outfits. The magic, the energy of presentation and performance, but now the only thing he wore was a dark grey silence, buzzing beneath the white noise of Otabek’s deep groans and occasional snores beside him. The hotel’s king-sized mattress was almost unbearably soft, like laying in a cloud, sprawled out adjacent to heaven. Dressed in nothing but one of the elder’s now over-sized tee shirts, the Russian lad studied the sharp edges of the popcorn ceiling absentmindedly. He obsessed over the warmth of the body beside him, beginning to quietly laugh when he noticed how unmoving his own smile was. He turned to the side and slid his smooth palm across the broad backside of his lover’s shoulder blades, tracing the tan flesh back with his dull nails. Yuri realized, while staring at his stirring companion’s thick eyebrows, shut eyes and peaceful rest that he was happy. The painfully industrious gold medalist was obsessed with success, victory, and prestige; he thought about training and praise and the Olympics all too much, but he finally slowed down to recognize his own heartbeat when he was with Otabek. He could let his hair down, speak his mind, and he knew that Otabek would support him no matter what. And now, not possessively but comfortably in his boyfriend’s clothing, he felt beautiful. Whatever that meant, he thought it blissful.

“Are you an angel?” The businessman asked, a devilish grin painting itself across his slow visage. Such a casual demeanor; Yuri lightheartedly envied how easy it was for Otabek to be this charming. He just woke up!

“Didn’t you say we’d be apart when we died because I’m going to hell?” The smaller chuckled, resting his knuckles against the side of his head now, wetting his lips while his free palm stroked the back of the amused elder’s neck. It was always a joke, of course, but Otabek pushed his lower lip out and crawled on top of Yuri in a lazy bear hug anyway, pecking his neck and kissing his cheek repeatedly. There was something so intoxicating about the warmth and the weight of Otabek’s weight on top of him, and he reciprocated the gesture when they locked lips again, not neglecting the night before. Yuri shook his head and retorted:

“I’ll reform and go to heaven instead.”  
“Really? You should have told me that before I sinned with you.” Otabek grunted.  
“I love you too much to let go. Is that okay?”  
“Yeah.”


	3. Back Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **The story description has been updated.** We’re sliding forward, chronologically, another three months. The rest of their vacation might be touched upon in flashback scenes. I just really love writing this dynamic, this verse, this ship, all of that jazz - it felt best continuing as is. Also, summaries don’t feel right for this story right now. I don’t know why.

On the receiving end of Yuri’s daily recaps, text messages written in passing, and long nightly phone calls, Otabek knew a lot about his beloved: the younger’s love for familiar pop musicians like Svetlana Loboda and how foreign stars like Rihanna were a guilty pleasure; how he cared for the black kitten which Otabek had given him a year ago who he named Pupsik; the brands and types of shampoo and conditioner he used, as well as thoughts on the length and growth of his own hair; every single time someone else made him mad or frustrated to the point of no return; and most significantly, whenever he would cry about someone misunderstanding him or his aggressive behavior. Yuri took life a little too seriously at times, but as he grew, so did his attitude. It was a maturing flavor of anger and industry, his passionate and hardworking approach to life his defining characteristic. Seeing him end up so depressed from these miscommunications reinforced the softness not so dramatically buried within. Otabek always wished they could live together, truthfully. He stimulated a particularly vivid and romantic set of fantasies every night before bed, shutting his eyes and shaping not a weirdly different world but rather a slightly more convenient version of his own. His idea of a great night’s rest wasn’t a dream of wealth or power but rather of Yuri being safe and happy, and them being entirely together. It was hard not being together, not holding the boy in his arms to comfort him when he was upset, and even harder to be away from him entirely after their blissful getaway.

There was never a real off-season for the Russian boy. His family, his friends, his coach, his choreographer, they were all hands on deck. Otabek was familiar with those burdens, and he didn’t miss them at all. Retiring was a wonderful idea, like living out a youthful adventure and taking away its fiscal advantages to start a sturdy life. His new world left time for hobbies and offered infinite opportunities for a business-related sense of accomplishment. He could buy the motorcycles he liked, practice chess out of interest, sleep late and work hard overtime for big payouts and quickly accumulating vacation days. He could take care of Yuri like that, he thought - an odd conclusion given the latter’s celebrity. Stars like him make millions off endorsement deals alone, but many of them never flinch. Otabek’s stunning boy was on his way to the Olympics; only after the true accomplishment of athleticism could he cave into all of his desires and finally settle down. That fire was gorgeous, indescribable; it brought tears to the taller’s eyes, being graced with the love of someone who cared so deeply about him and about them, too. They were both soft then, but he stood rugged and sturdy. He knew and exercised the fact that he could confide in Yuri, and while he never lied or was anything less than honest, he always did his absolute best to remain strong for him. The obstacles Otabek faced were trivial at best, but his boyfriend’s stress levels were consistently immense. By being Yuri’s rock, he did his best to alleviate said burdens.

They were in Japan three months ago, cuddling on a bed they could easily afford to put in a shared home. And they hadn’t seen each other in that long, approximately ninety days of hell, because of hard work. Yuri thought it’d be another four months, but that they could spend the summer together, that they would. That they’d start talking, and not in cafes, not near their international friends so that the teenager’s sass would work fast. He was going to be twenty, as funny as it was, and the older they got the closer they became. Yuri thought it’d be a while before webcamming wasn’t their best bet, but Otabek decided to surprise him. Stowed away in the athlete’s apartment after being snuck in by Yuri’s team, he waited. He was dressed to sleep already: a white muscle shirt and light blue pajama pants, covered in yellow ducks. They just looked impeccably soft, and no doubt were. Their child, as Yuri called his cat, crawled all over the Kazakh, remembering his first, brief owner by scent and nuzzling against the bottom of the man’s hand and the side of his chest. He would have assumed that its meows spoiled his hiding spot until the unknowing host arrived still clueless.

“Don’t act like you haven’t been fed.” Yuri hummed lowly, his mother tongue so comfortably shared not with his pet, perhaps, but at least with his attentive soul-mate. Otabek let out a heavy chuckle right away, the furry ball sliding off of him, its tiny paws traversing the white comforter instead as he stood. Pulling his bare arms apart and opening his chest for a hug, a devilish smiled painted itself across his face as he murmured: “I like it when _you_ feed me, beautiful.”

Yuri’s eyes widened in shock, he stood still for a moment, his duffel bag sliding off of his limp arms and onto the floor. His heart began to pound as he took three heavy steps toward the taller and jumped on him again. This time, instead of wrapping his legs around the man’s waist, he simply hung there above the hands cradling his backside, failing to not sob as the elder began to rock him from side to side.

“Don’t cry, baby…” Otabek whispered, pressing a kiss against the other’s cheek, pecking his jawline in quick unison. “My Yuri… Don’t cry for me, baby…”

“What are you doing here?” Yuri mumbled; his voice shaky, his body unmoving.  
“I came here to visit you.”  
“I’m leaving, I’m leaving Moscow. I’m going to Vancouver.”  
“Then I’ll go with you.”  
“What about work?”  
“I’ll work from my computer.”

Yuri plopped to his feet and shook his head, pressing his face against the other’s upper chest and inhaling deeply. “I’m sorry for texting you so much lately. I know you hate having to type stuff out on your phone.”

“I don’t hate anything about you, anything from you. I love it every time you text me.” He had gotten better at it from all of the business he handled on the go, but it was still true: Yuri was never a chore to him. It made him smile, and that’s all that mattered.

“Do you really wanna come with me?” His eyes lit up, but he was concerned. “What about your apartment back home?”

“I make enough, trust me.” Otabek said simply, firmly grasping the back of the boy’s neck, leaning forward and pressing their foreheads together. “Now… get packing.”


	4. Clean Air

No matter how hard Yuri tried, Otabek never let him carry one of their suitcases. That was what he was for, he promised. With his hair down and his red hood up, the figure skater did his best to hide his identity but ultimately failed by the time they moved into line to be searched. There were cameras in some mundane places, under sleeves or behind potted plants, but most fans held phones in front of their faces while trying their best not to scream and shout. Airport security got involved, and the elder immediately felt guilt for trying to behave so subtly. They planned on buying most of their goods there: food, bathroom products, so on and so forth. Their suitcases were filled with clothing and other personal commodities, their backpacks carrying important, expensive items like their laptops. Yuri had a suitcase just for his competition gear too, so ultimately, there was much to carry despite a lacking diversity. Pounds and pounds of fabric. What Yuri did carry was the crate Pupsik laid in. They were flying private, so the cat would be able to wander and move freely once they made it through the hellish building and out onto the runway. In the meantime, though, every thought was cuttingly concise. The smaller’s head pounded, ached voraciously. He happily spent the money to fly private; Yukov had the right idea. It would be hard, uprooting his life and settling down somewhere far away, so strange, alien like this. The paper work was done for him. It wouldn’t be hard for either of them. Money and talent. That’s all that anyone cared about, so a businessman and a world class athlete would be fine. The city was diverse, but he was still afraid. Yuri was terrified, but he said nothing. And that’s why he looked so mad all of the time, why his resting face was intimidating and why he was told to lighten up, why his coach had to remind him that people cared about what he thought. He couldn’t fake a smile, though.

Once they made it through with all of their luggage, it didn’t take long to board the plane. He wanted to hold Otabek’s hand but couldn’t manage; the taller was busy, and he was afraid of the cameras. They’d been so close for years and Yuri felt as if they were dating the entire time, that there was nothing to worry about, but they still hadn’t spoken explicitly. Defined their relationship, but he’s given his all to Otabek, and he had no reason to worry. He began to, still. They secured their belongings, locked the cabin, behaved cordially around the one flight attendant who personally helped them with their buckles. Yuri began to sweat when the plane tilted and lifted off of the ground. He let the other hold one of his hands and used the other to comfort the kitten behind the cage door on the carpet beside them. Once they steadied, horizontal for the long flight, he slid his belt off and opened the cage, putting a litter box in a far and hidden corner, asking for bowls and setting food and water out in a foolishly unprepared way. He felt out of his element, with his team only following days later. He felt like he was married now, yet he wasn’t even sure if he could call Otabek his boyfriend. So when he sat back down, he sat on the arm of the taller’s chair, wrapping his arms around him and nuzzling his neck immediately.

“You’re my first.” Yuri said simply, speaking softly, inaudibly, but Otabek knew that tone, how to understand the angelic moans. He was so withdrawn, that’s why the feeling was mutual, but they were both impressively young. Still, he didn’t know what to say. There was nothing for him _to_ say. But there was plenty more for the younger to confess. More worries to alleviate. He wanted to be the first and the last both. He spoke. “Were you… ever… with anyone else? All these years?”

“No.” Otabek responded firmly, his own demeanor fatigued. Airports were always hellish, to say the least. He turned his head, more securely wrapped his arms around the other’s torso, tugging him closer. Yuri settled on his lap and ignored the flight attendant passing, asking, offering her services. He wondered if she knew who he was. If she did, where would this go, what would it mean. If she didn’t, did she understand who he was, if he was a woman? It was a private company, of course. She would not be allowed to behave so unprofessionally. Being gay in Russia, or Kazakhstan for that matter, is not favorable. There were already plenty of rumors based on his appearance, his behavior, but they were heading elsewhere now. He didn’t want pictures out there, not that he was ashamed. Never ashamed of his love. He wouldn own it. He might choose it, select it over his career. He flinched at the dreadful thought. To choose codependence over independence, and he started to wonder where the years had gone. So many golds, four in a row. What was he doing? There was something promising about the change. The grandiose paradigm shift, and soon, he might unabashedly be so affectionate in the presence of others, totally uncaring. His love for Otabek stretched beyond the base of shame.

“Are we dating?” Yuri asked another question with an obvious answer, but they weren’t so obvious to him. He wanted to buy his own jet, now. Not that he necessarily had that kind of money to throw away, but the thought of not sleeping cabins but a formal bedroom, with no one else on board but pilots. To cuddle now in peace without jeopardizing the other’s back, without damaging his own figure. He was sweating now, sporadically attempting to distract himself with the senseless ponderings spoken. Otabek nodded simply, his smile somewhere between rhetorical pity and understandable worry. His hands slid down to rub Yuri’s lower back, and he whispered: “You don’t need to worry, Yurochka. None of this is in your head.”

Otabek always knew exactly what to say. His lover copped a sigh, so genuine and pathetic. “Oh, Bek… You’re the only one…” He said, tucking his arms against his own chest, pressing his forehead against the crook of the man’s neck. And as worried as his mind was for the taller’s comfort, his body was uncaring, falling asleep in the stronger’s lap and arms, and Otabek couldn’t mind. The smell, the warmth. He must have been awake for half of the shared two hour nap, just feeling him, feeling his body, feeling his _own_ heart beat fast and slow. To protect his Yurio, to take care of him, and to keep on. To be his only one, and to help him open up even more, or to live life simply. To dance in a world alone, together. That’s all he wanted.


	5. Heart of Mine

The exhaustion was never ending. Yuri swore after his nap that he’d be productive with the rest of his time. He and Otabek lounged around the plane, playing with their cat, talking about each other, mundane interests, and the future of their lives both together and apart. They cuddled with long hugs, held hands and kissed when their privacy was a sure thing. After another deeper, longer slumber, they were landing, and he scooped Pupsik back into his cage and exited after their descent. Taking a heavy taxi with all of their luggage to the apartment Yukov had arranged for them was a pricy task. By the time they got their, Yuri’s head was pounding, and now his desire for rest was simply incessant. With his arms crossed, he leaned against a blank space beside the front door and let a moving team pull selected furniture into their new home. Although his English vocabulary and syntax were impressive, his shaky accent left him doubting everything he said before he said it, so he stayed quiet, not wanting to make things harder on himself. Residing long term would be allowed with laws permissive of talent, but if Otabek really did have his old motorcycle shipped over, how would he drive it? Only illegally, but there was something so passive about this moment in time, something which encouraged risks and lead with dangerous intuition. 

The small apartment seducing Yuri’s love for domestic bliss was a compact dream come true. Every room had just enough space to comfortably fit its furniture within. No slack. Maybe Yuri loved it because he viewed himself as rather feline, and the home was a perfect first place. It made him feel wrapped up like a cat, and it suited Otabek’s desire for homeliness flawlessly. When setup was complete, Yuri was thrilled. Upon entering, one stood in a room with a bookshelf, a chair and an end table, and a few various decorations. A large arch opened the majority of the wall up to the living room, like a decorated door frame shaped ornately. It was never truly meant to hold a door. The living room was a couch and a loveseat surrounding a coffee table and a rather large, wall mounted television across from the seating. To the immediate right was the master bedroom with a queen-sized bed, a drawer and a wardrobe, two nightstands and a walk in closet. Exiting the way one came in and taking another right led one down a hallway: the door on the left was the bathroom, the arch a few feet further down on the right lead to the kitchen, and the door at the end of the hall was a second bedroom. The bathroom had a toilet, a sink, a shower-bath and pastel decorations; the kitchen had a space with a fridge, a stove, and a small dining table as well as another arched off space with cabinets and a sink; the room at the end of the hallway was currently empty and being used partially as storage for Yuri’s skating equipment and partially as an office. The desk and sorting bins there would be where Otabek set himself up for work, with Yuri dragging his laptop around by the screen in contrast; anywhere he wanted to sit or lay was where he’d make room for social media, music, or video games. 

“Take me to practice sometime? Tomorrow?” Otabek asked later that evening. Yuri had long since taken it upon himself to sweep and scrub the floor, leaving their home immaculate and pleasant scented after the moving crew had left. The door was locked, the curtains were drawn (there was at least one window in every room), and they were ready to settle in for the night. The elder wore nothing but cozy, dark grey pajama pants, laying down across the couch on his back, the arm of the couch pressing against the rear of his neck. In his comfortable, form-fitting briefs—were they yellow, pink, purple, or maybe even red? He couldn’t recall—Yuri draped himself across Otabek, his stomach against the taller’s crotch. His chin rested against his lover’s chest as he gazed up at him with bright, cool eyes, wide and beady. He was pathetically smitten. His firm, smooth legs were straight, the other’s longer lower limbs wrapped around his body like a koala while he hugged the elder’s midriff with his arms.

“I don’t know if I will, tomorrow.” Yuri said, and Otabek let out a playful gasp at the thought, but Yuri continued before he could speak, hearty with a smile. “I need to go grocery shopping and stuff. We need groceries. I want to walk through the apartment, make sure everything is setup and fine… food, bathroom supplies, clothing, even decorations… We’ll get the Internet and cable setup, too. That guy’s coming tomorrow. I’ll do that.” He knew Otabek’s English had gotten better for sure, but he wanted to be the homemaker if nothing else. “And once everything’s established and totally perfect, I’ll be able to not worry about my boyfriend working at home in an unsuitable environment.” His grin remained playfully formal as he said that term of endearment for the first time aloud; he couldn’t remember it ever escaping his head before, sliding out by way of his mouth, but Otabek didn’t react. He just chuckled: “You spoil me.”

“Says the man who packed up and moved across the world… for love.” Yuri sang in reassurement but there was no lie. He didn’t exaggerate. Otabek wet his lips, looking off like there was a hidden camera, like he was blushing beneath his olive complexion. He shot back, revenge:

“How does it feel in my arms, baby boy?”  
“Unforgettable.”


	6. Overprotected

Yuri’s new rent-a-car did everything he could possibly dream of. It took him everywhere he needed to be, and after the communications representative soaked up his morning, he had to move fast. Otabek would wake up to Internet and cable, but he’d go hungry until their cabinets were filled. Yuri could have hired someone to do these chores, but he enjoyed taking care of his partner - it was like a sinful pleasure somehow, a spoiled chance he didn’t usually get at home. He bought what he had to, bringing the groceries back before heading returning to go shopping for clothes and a painting, a framed poster or two. Shampoo, a shower curtain, soap, everything. He had everything in the trunk of his car, and he swung by a drive through on the way home. He couldn’t believe that he was shoveling his face full of french fries, chewing fast, texting faster, touching base with everyone back home before they went to bed. The sun was out, and it wasn’t half bad. He was checking the global news when suddenly, a message from the man who hated typing the most: Otabek describing how he was called a racial slur by a drunk man wandering past their complex’s front door while he was taking the trash out (plastic wrap and other packaging had filled the barrel quick). Yuri’s heart sank, and he pulled out of where he was parked and slid into traffic, driving home faster than he should have.

Most people didn’t even know where Kazakhstan was. It left a bitter taste in Yuri’s mouth, what most people would say; how old, Western anthropologists categorized them all as Mongoloids. Some people would think Otabek looked Chinese, maybe. East Asia did, in fact border Central Asia. This was simple logic. It still hurt the critical boy to know that some people carried these prejudices. They were terrible in Russia, too, but maybe Canada wasn’t much better. Maybe North America wasn’t the beautiful haven it was painted as in movies and television shows. He was too young to understand these dynamics fully, but he was still heartbroken. The part of the brain responsible for emotional reasoning does not finish developing until twenty-five, which explained why instead of rationally talking down his worries, Yuri was bawling his eyes out at a red light. He was good about securing the car in the connected parking garage, grabbing the five bags of grub he had purchased in surplus and the drink tray too. He got a lot of food for himself and Otabek before losing his appetite, and he hoped it would come back as he raced up the stairs and grunted in desperation, putting the drinks on the floor before unlocking the front door, relocking it once it was open an inch. Picking the styrofoam back up, he kicked the door shut behind him and swiftly walked to the kitchen table, putting everything down and sliding the drinks into the fridge before grunting in frustration: the trunk was full of the superstore goods, but he didn’t feel like running back down now. He’d return later.

Otabek was sitting at the desk in the spare room, typing away at his laptop nonchalantly. The kitten lingered by its litterbox in the corner, tucked around boxes and away from the metal racks of shimmering, sparkling, skin-tight outfits. Thankfully, they had a pet who kept to themselves in the face of attractive fabric. Yuri raced in and threw his arms around the other from behind, kissing his cheek apologetically as he sniffled out, mumbling.

“Are you okay?”  
“Of course, of course… Did you run home?”  
“I was done, it’s alright.”  
“You got everything you needed?”  
“Yes, it’s in the car. There’s food in the kitchen, I got you fast food. It won’t kill you once.” Yuri nodded, convincing himself.  
“Have you been crying?”  
He paused, contemplating an only caring lie. But he was glad Otabek told him about what happened, no matter how painful it was. “Yes, but it’s okay.”  
The elder let out a sigh. “Let me go get the stuff from the car.”  
“No, don’t—” Yuri fell apart again, grabbing the man’s hand between both of his own before falling to his knees, thighs weak.

Change can be an incredibly difficult thing for the human mind. Some people are not as good at coping with the stress of change; not all artists and athletes are as skilled at spending their lives on the road. Moving across the world to a place where he wasn’t entirely comfortable, linguistically or communally, was intense stress. It was more stress, hugely so, because he was taking the apartment there far too seriously. The stress piled up given Otabek’s accompaniment being a massive, last minute commitment - which rendered the stress of their only recently straightforward relationship both relevant and ablaze. It was stress in his heart, tearing him apart, bothering his slumber, preventing deep breaths, and keeping him on edge. He knew stress well, it both drove and hurt him in his career. Now, with no one neutral to yell at, berate, scold, or talk down to, he was nothing but an emotional wreck. He couldn’t project or sublimate his worries in the usual aggressive way until he saw his coach, his choreographer, or any of his training friends at the start of the new week. He couldn’t dare behave that way towards Otabek; it wasn’t a thought or a choice, not even an option that crossed his mind. He never did behave, that was the problem: Yuri was a loose cannon, even crying at his favorite person’s feet still filterless.

Otabek didn’t tell him not to. He didn’t yell at him, for sure, and he didn’t make him feel pathetic either. He simply slid to his knees too, wrapped his arms around the shorter’s slender torso, and hugged him close. He rubbed Yuri’s back and let soft noises leak past his lips, calming the blond like no one else could. Yuri felt selfish, reacting like this when the other’s life had been just as turbulent, and the negative confrontation was Otabek’s experience to claim, but none of that mattered. Otabek had a way of silencing him and reassuring him all at once, magical words not out of the ordinary to a stranger’s ear, but each syllable knew Yuri so well:

“My sweet Yurochka… Your heart’s too big for you to hold back by yourself. What did I do, to deserve all your love?”


	7. Hug Me

To be with Otabek after long days of work, Yuri got himself into _Starcraft._ The elder enjoyed playing the role of a mentor, guiding with one of the three factions (all of which he was rather competent with). He preferred the Terran: a simple depiction of future humans across the galaxy, their very earth-like technology straightforwardly advanced. Yuri was amused by the evil Zerg, their insectoid, bizarre, and purposefully disgusting design invoking fear, but he chose the Protoss ultimately: a majestic, indescribable race with shimmering yellow armor and blue shields of invisible energy. Their electromagnetic aura and the echoing voice of their overlord announcer reminded the skater of his on ice persona, and something captured his attention in that almost threatening beauty.

Yuri remembered every sound effect as his fast fingers clicked all over the screen. He had spent many nights, now and years before, listening to Otabek play this. One of his favorite games. It must have shaped his mind somehow. Yuri would be laid across the elder’s lap or sitting there instead, his limbs curled around the taller’s body as a deep, full-bodied hug atop the same office chair. Facing opposite directions, his lower shoulder was an easy rest for Otabek’s sturdy chin. He was still like this even now, his laptop on a box behind Otabek, his arms struggling to move the mouse fast, but he refused to sit in his own chair. It likely wasn’t the most comfortable position for either of them, but it was the best of both worlds for the traditional man who had found his eyes glued to a computer screen rather incessantly since he retired from figure skating the year prior. If they weren’t cuddled up in bed, then this was perfect. The younger would stare at the shadows on the wall that the computer screen projected with flashing lights, toying with his smartphone whenever he got bored, but he was never lonely. He would keep his lips agape, pressed against the back of Otabek’s tan neck, drooling where his mouth dragged. It was a warmth, a closeness, and he took it for granted. Most would have found their atypical shows of affection less than intimate; others would have been repulsed by how he kissed each crook or licked the businessman’s face in the privacy of their own togetherness.

There were so many nights like this, with sore legs and the elder’s favorite pair of long johns hugging his thighs. Yuri would wear nothing beneath the sweaters he stole from Otabek, which rode up casually when he sat on their owner’s lap in one of these many close, touchy positions. It was always romantic and nothing more, not that they had ever been afraid of each other. Maybe that was Yuri’s greatest antidote, that companionship had cured his fear. The three-quarters empty pizza box smelled all of the way from the kitchen, where he had shut its lid to hide it from their voracious cat. The smell was still pungent, alfredo sauce and garlic parmesan crust, extra melted cheese and a can of black olives Yuri left out of the fridge. He was too lazy to stand up now, too comfortable in Otabek’s arms. He laughed, remembering how he’d been teased not two nights prior. All of this junk food, too, he should have been teased for that, but his metabolism was remarkable, and at nineteen he was surely still growing. Maybe not any larger, he never grew an inch, but stronger. More powerful. Not in his arms, but in his legs, in his core. In his heart.


	8. You Needed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags will be updated to reflect not characters just mentioned by name, but rather those who actively participate in the story (in this chapter, the speaking and physically present example would be Victor). I can’t know for sure who this will consist of in the future. When people like Yakov finally make a tangible appearance, they will be tagged too. I simply do not want to mislead potential readers.
> 
> Additionally, although this chapter includes (as some others have) allusions to more mature activities, I will not be changing the story’s rating from ‘teen’ unless I feel it truly becomes explicit. References to or chaste conversations about sex are not enough for a movie to not receive the PG-13 flag; it is this mindset that I will use to evaluate. Smut is not off the table, but I am not going to force it either. I rely on my intuition for the creative muse of any given story I’m writing, and will do the same for _Don’t Speak._ x

They were all sweaty in the locker room, but the humidity—the body odor, the natural heat—was not the kind the star student enjoyed. It wasn’t like Otabek stepping out of the shower surrounded by mists and lingering aromas of artificial cherry blossoms, and it certainly was a neither familiar nor charming musk which clogged Yuri’s pores. Changing booths, toilet stalls, and showers lined the walls of the bathroom. The new rink itself was well-equipped and although Yuri looked forward to spending months training here, rejoining his athletic company was difficult at best. His team was welcome guidance, though not falling back into a cycle of depending on them like a crutch was difficult. He felt it something important to avoid. He was self-sufficient now. Victor was there too, as was Yuuri and the Japanese lad’s dear friend Phichit. The rest, including Canada’s dreadful own Jean-Jacques, planned on joining once their seasonal preparation cycle began, though their headquarters were typically elsewhere. He scoffed at the thought, that Vancouver was surely a promotion from Detroit and other less fortunate cities. Yuri’s similarly named competitor was still hot on his impressive tail, even if gold had been the Russian’s for consecutive years. Life stretched beyond the Grand Prix for its champion Plisetsky and everyone knew it, including his potential Olympic teammate Mr. Nikiforov. The latter planned on being awarded the title and honor of procession flag-bearer based on age and veterancy. The thought angered Yuri, who considered his former mentor’s fate negatively sealed by a break spent on guiding Katsuki Yuuri to the crown of second best. Yuri owned the throne; he was the prince of Russia, their royalty.

Yuuri and Phichit had finished early and left to explore local restaurants, many of which Yuri had childishly claimed days prior like a native. In the privacy and vulnerability of hygienic nudity, Victor spoke in leaps and bounds. It was as if his job was to be the devil’s uninformed, fool hearty advocate. His questions formed an interrogation; his words were like a popcorn string of fast and miniscule insults as he wrapped a towel around his waist. Yuri lingered under running water, combing his long blond locks out beneath the warm stream. Fully wet, their tips sat significantly beneath his shoulderblades, stretching out towards the small of his lower back. He aesthetically refined and inherited Victor’s legacy, refurbishing the legend as his own impressive reputation. Yuri was the superior, his youth making this all the sweeter. His fellow Russian truly and honestly thought he was being helpful with his busy quips. He was genuine as he dressed, but unfortunately, not all minds can understand the importance of ideas. They fixate on people, events, but never the touch, the sensation. Yuri felt things, an intuitive second nature. The taller spouted off what Yuri assumed was a pointless rant in their mother tongue, the locker room full of every snap and crackle as metaphorical kernels roasted, suspended on the strand over the harsh heat of Victor’s echoing voice:

Just because you lost your virginity to him doesn’t mean he’s perfect.  
You were apart for so long. Don’t you think lust overcame him once or twice?  
You weren’t even dating. He’s quiet, but he’s a man.  
Talking to someone doesn’t claim them for your own.  
You needed more friends, that’s what you need.   
You’re irrational for wanting to hear he was never with anyone.  
Retroactive jealousy is the fastest way to the end of a relationship.

**You’re just infatuated.**

In the past, Yuri’s age and professionalism kept him focused on his career, but he knew what it was like to feel more _adult_ urges. That’s how they were categorized, what they were called, but he didn’t feel much like an adult. He understood, in adolescence, how one’s mindset might completely change, how their focus alters as if affected by a totally usual drug. It was normal, typical. But love was the same way, even stronger. He felt so safe, so protected in his home, and he was lucky to feel that. He was fortunate for this spiritual drug trip. He was Otabek’s speaker and miniature guardian, too. A fairy child, that’s what they said. 

“Just because you’re out doesn’t mean it’s as easy for everyone else.” Yuri barked, continuing in a removed fashion. “I don’t have any interest in going back to Moscow if staying means being happy for once. We’re happy.” He was being gentler than normal, less abrasive. It was beyond learning to accept being needed by others, and needing them as well. That growth wasn’t just a natural test of time, it was the result of a strong emotion. It was more than childish affection. The intimacies had been ongoing for years. It was a full love now, a passive blessing and for Yuri, a constant thrill. “Forget I ever said anything.”

Victor knew he had struck a nerve, standing by the sealed stall door, pulling his briefs up and tugging his shirt down. “You can talk to me, Yurio. I just hope it lasts.”

“It will last, Victor.”  
“Not the relationship. The privacy.”


	9. The Last Stark Jury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning’s meant to be confusing (hint: it’s a dream). Just hang in there! I like the emotion.

I’m digging this grave just for you. Every time the tip of the spade hits rock, my ears fizzle out. I cringe, my shoulders shrug, but I soldier on. I can’t stop prying into this hole in the ground; the dirt smells like it’s demarcated a line, a square zone just for you. I’ll dig my talons in and hoist your bed out, lifting the earth to make room for you. You are everything, everyone, and nothing at all. You are someone who is pointless, lifeless; a body which meant nothing but what it meant to be. You are a part of my story, a puzzle piece in the jigsaw of my heart which might be lost forever, and that’s quite alright. I won’t miss you because I'll be reminiscing, staring at the tainted image of good memories, good memories now soiled, because it doesn’t matter how it started or how it happened, it matters how it ended. Doesn’t matter how long the magic lasted, or how pure our hearts were. All that matters is that you ended it, you ended it with your yet to mature understanding, your subconscious value system, the emotions you can’t control. You saw more excitement in the instant gratification of luxury, the thrill of pleasure. Age is no barrier, life is no controller. You are the dictator of your own unfortunate destiny, because you do not and never did understand what matters. Your eyes and comforts on the streets took back alley drives without permission; you took what you wanted, always, but you were always spoiled. About each acquisition, you deserved it. You respected those who supported your fantastical legend and no one else at all.

I won’t look at your face ever again, will never give you the fun. The closure is yours, and not mine. The way in which you assume my expectations is a part of your fantasy, too. Your fashions are wild, entirely capricious, as lawless as you were in bowing to what you liked. Your words were loose, your attitude was whorish. Each syllable slept where it laid, no permission, no rent of juicy love or stern meal. You gave what was given by the cold winter breeze, saw snowflakes as your only way out. You gave because giving was a forum to receive, the warmth in your heart a fine, plugged in machine. I don’t want you anywhere near me, so I’ll keep your coffin shut. Your casket: only material, only visual, only sensual. I don’t think, for even a moment, about the future of your body. I don’t think about how you’ll move on, how you might move on, or if you will. I don’t even think about your regret, because though droplets of springtime dew may form upon your face, you’ll reassure yourself solemnly. That this was just how things were meant to me. That choices were limited, limited only to one. That shame was not there and guilt was heavy with the indecision of a hallway with two doors. A liminal space, from A to B, from you to me. You walked in one way and walked out the other, and you slowed your legs sometimes but still slid out. You followed a line, yellow duct tape, without asking questions. You reassured yourself with how you feel, how you feel and no perception of, how others feel, how survival feels, how the economy feels, how your family feels. 

You were a spectre of sin. A demon parading as lawful. Goodness relies on selflessness, and evil knows how to bend the ways of the world and the fabrics of order for its own benefit. I will always look back, I will never not have the opportunity to unlike some, unlike you. You stopped, you looked straight forward. You never did look back. Never could turn your head that way. I’ll seal the memories, the box a fourth smaller than the last, twice as sweet but less important. I’ll stop scratching my head and finally take a shower. I’ll take comb to curls under hot, hot water. I’ll watch as the strands fall out of my head because they like the togetherness of the lifeless bristles of a plastic comb so dearly. I’ll bury you without looking back, and I’ll never unhinge that tight gold lock, never unclip the perimeter of your new unholy sacrament. The power of life compels you six feet under, where finally, fate brings you your rewards. And ultimately, you will die alone. Your physical responsibilities will gather around, your distant kin as communicative with their tears as you were with your love for tradition. And they will traditionally mourn you, and when you reach your pearly gates, when you find the nova in your mind, an exploding brain, nirvana, you will know. You will know when you spin the CD, when you hit the radio in your forever dream and you hear the storm and her hoarse, needy voice. You’ll always be playing the game; you’ll hurt less, you’ll reap more, you’ll fool yourself with pain and sorrow, but you’ll never have all you could’ve. You’ll never have it all.

Yuri’s dark, distracted mind and fuzzy senses were awoken slowly. First, the smell of sizzling meat, and then the sound of splattering grease and the television on a quiet volume in the living room, muffled by the closed bedroom door. Otabek’s footfalls were purposefully soft in their quickness but no less heavy; he couldn’t help it, and Yuri understood. A smile drew itself upon the smaller’s graceful face, the contours of his milky white cheeks groggy from deep sleep. His mind and body were still exhausted, but he was entirely enchanted by this idea of a Saturday morning, so cozy and wonderful. Reality was nothing like the dread of his hopeless dreams, dreams he’d like to sell. Dreams of loneliness, driving him mad. Fears, internalized, yelled - loudly, in the stillness of solemn memories. He frowned and covered his head in the blanket when the door opened. The taller approached his bedside, rubbed his covered torso gently, enchantingly. His voice was nice, subtle, gradual in its bass. He whispered:

“My prince… it’s time to wake up, Yurochka… It’s nearly noon; breakfast’s ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: In light of recent news regarding this ship’s presence in season two, I have removed the ‘canon compliant’ tag. Whether or not the reference to Mila’s interest in Otabek was in jest or not, I do have problems with some of the show’s writing. I want to tell the story of Otabek and Yuri as I have been thus far, as real queer men with realistic struggles regarding their identities and lives. Power.


	10. Please Don't Break

The relationship Yuri had with compliments was never simple. Words used to describe him, gender in general, always posed a threatening challenge. He had been feminized in the eyes of many, often for the sake of selfish gain on their part, or for degradation of the young lad in general. He had been similarly cruel to others, criticizing Yuuri’s body by mirroring Victor’s thoughtless words. Cluelessness was seductive, addictive. Ignorance is bliss. But awareness was _painful._ He _hated_ how happy he was when Otabek called him strong, stereotypically masculine in any way. He felt somewhere in between, but thought that if he was comfortable being he, he had to be sturdy and rugged. He had to be a real man, which was hard with his love for things which, coincidentally, were apparently of a feminine alignment. The way he skated, what he wore; his famous flowing locks. They all complemented this male end of his polarizing self-actualization. He found himself using his assertiveness as a tool to reclaim his masculinity consistently, but the longer his hair got, the older he got without change, the less his leadership was valued. He was now simply sassy: in other words, what he believed was invalidated by his expected attitude. All of a sudden, real emotion, dread, and struggle were all the life and times of an androgynous superstar. A superstar who was whatever the headlines wanted him to be. He was really a woman, he was actually gay. They said a lot of things about him, false and true. He could hardly perceive himself beneath the roaring thunders, to study the walls in the closet in silence. He could hardly identify or accept that he actually did enjoy being effeminate. Had it not been for his romantic relationship, he likely would have been unable to grip his own sexuality by the throat. When his love accepted him with no labels, for everything he was at all, he realized that he was a queer starchild gliding across the ice like a demigod, and that was all. Clean.

Otabek shouted encouraging words from the side of the rink as the accomplished teenager danced in circles. Yuri juggled these ideas in a reductive form, losing himself in the haunting music playing in his head. What did the horrid dream mean? Who was in the coffin? Himself? How close was he to change? Rebirth. The step sequence his blades traced left no time for delay, a tight, whipped figure eight propelling him into a gradually slowing path toward the businessman’s position. He stopped on his toes, gripping the wooden panel lining the observer’s side with one hand, the other palm reaching forward to cup Otabek’s cheek. He tugged the taller closer and kissed his lips, pulling away to let nearby Yuuri see Yakov in the distance, visually so small between their heads. Yuuri soundlessly shrieked, whispering: “Look out.” His Russian counterpart responded.

“He doesn’t care.”  
“He… he doesn’t?”  
“I don’t care if he does.” Yuri stuck his tongue out and grabbed the Japanese fellow’s hand, tugging him back out to ice as the coach approached.

“Altin… you have some nerve.”  
“I know, Mr. Feltsman. Will I be seeing you at Beijing, in 2022? Pyeongchang went splendidly.”  
Yakov gasped and shook his head. Otabek’s eyes never left his beautiful boy.


	11. Runaway

Yuri was paid. Stacks of cash, big numbers with many zeroes. Rubber band stacks to the ceiling. He always looked at his bank account on the screen of his phone, which blew Yakov away every time. His life was digital. His savings account had two commas in it. Pure dollars, now. He was a millionaire, and not one who barely got by, who barely qualified. He was a wealthy young man, a millionaire teenager. Not that his fiscal health mattered much in comforting personal growth, but being able to send support home to his grandfather was wonderful, and being able to entirely disregard money worries and troubles was a privilege. There was nothing lucky about it, though. He took full responsibility for his skill, his dedication, his passion. His talent. He accepted endorsements, he competed in big competitions, and he always made sure that he got paid. That certainly robbed the art of a part of its awesome strength. The older the boy got, the more realistic and mature he became. He was more susceptible to the guiding force of wiser figures in his life and he understood, fully, how hard working was. But he worked hard, he set himself up, and now he focused on his emotions and his relationship by comforting himself with the thriving physique of his career. 

There was certainly plenty of room for fantasizing like this. A wandering mind finding big homes and bigger yards in a fantastical, ephemeral neighborhood. A dream. A pool, children, a ring. Grey hair on Otabek’s head and a custom-fit suit hugging his every strong side. A smile on his face, and only a wrinkle or two. His cheeks felt so warm against Yuri’s palms. He could feel the crevice of his grin. The canyons, he could feel it. Kids running around, teenagers complaining. It was so brief, but so fast. He saw all of it. The blues in the sky, the greens in the grass. The dark roofing, red paneling, complex siding a show of character and class. The hedges, the grey metal gates. The yellow brick walkway. The many windows, covered and designed. The distance. The wonderful neighbors and the gated driveway. The gated community, his gated mind. The horrid safety of his psychic capacity, of the inability for others to step on his property without permission. His private property. His privacy. And the pool was a beautiful teal, a teal dream, a teal fiction, and he screamed suddenly.

He was drooling on Otabek’s stomach before his shoulders yanked themselves forward. Otabek who was shirtless in white long johns, draped across their sizable bed. His hands were tucked behind his head, the bulging mass of his arms flexing passively. An obsession with the gym lately. Maybe the unshaved hair on his chest had something to say about how he felt. He was snoring, and Yuri slowly lifted his head without alarming the stirring creature further, not remembering how he got there, but his hair was up and back in a loose ponytail, a green scrunchy hugging the middle of his mane. Although he had been stripped down to his purple briefs, his socks were still on. Tugging them off quickly, he moved from his perpendicular position and nuzzled his face into the side of Otabek’s neck, wrapping his limbs around the bigger man’s body in desperate need of comfort. Protection. He needed his guardian, but to hide him from what?


	12. Smile

“This means more than metals.” Victor confessed the obvious to Yuuri, curled up into a ball behind the bleachers of their temporary training rink. This season’s homebase was undergoing brief renovations, including (but not limited to): the total removal of a nasty roach infestation. Yuuri _hated_ roaches. That’s all he cared about. They had only skated there once, but it was already dearly missed. This local gym (closed off from the public), usually used for hockey, was less than endearing.

“There’s a lot of us.” Yuuri mumbled, sniffling and wiping his running nose along the underside of his wrist messily. He was feeling rather demoralized yet opportunistic, watching Otabek casually dance on ice far beyond Victor’s shoulder. He was holding Yuri in his arms, dragging him across the lines his skates left. Victor continued, not concerned with his partner’s young confidence. “Mila and Sara are coming to train here, too. I’m sure Jean-Jacques will. Maybe we shouldn’t have followed Yurio here, but… the paparazzi are brutal. They don’t care, they play by different rules. I don’t know how far this is going to go. Have you talked to him lately?”

“Who? Yurio?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Why do you ask me?”  
“Aren’t you good friends?”  
“I don’t know, you’d be better off asking Mila. I’m only still really close to Phichit. I mean, I _could_ talk to Yurio...”  
“Hmrph.”  
“Why though?”  
“I think he wants different things. He wants to persevere, compete, show his energy, but he wants to settle down too.”  
“He’ll never retire, baby.”  
“I’m not saying that, but if the Canadian paparazzi want to take pictures of them together for a big picture assuming that the entire world views them, what they are, the same way they do…”

Yuuri and Victor had never been very open, very loud away from their friends and families. Not in public, not in a way that couldn’t be excused. But as the years passed, the public displays, the kissing and holding, became too much to handle for onlookers. Yuuri endured the heat in Japan, where they lived when not brought elsewhere by their nomadic lifestyle like this… but Victor hadn’t touched Russia. He hadn’t been back; had mourned it like a father, a mother. And now, already tempting and teasing the mercy of his countrymen and women, Yuri was threatening the same. Victor sighed:

“His grandfather will be so heartbroken.”  
“Isn’t his grandfather about to die?” Yuri asked. Victor smacked his arm but cracked a small smile.  
“That’s the last thing he needs. The only person he has…”  
“Besides Otabek?”  
“Once his grandfather’s gone, he’ll have nobody left but Otabek. That sounds like an awful weight to tie to their relationship.”  
“Victor… maybe they won’t sink. Maybe it’ll be… freeing, you know?”  
“Yuuri.” Victor gasped.  
“That’s not what I meant! But how much of a tie does he have to everything, huh? And Otabek, he packed up everything and left Kazakhstan in a heartbeat, went across the world to a strange, different place… just to be with Yuri.” His whisper was now roaring, his voice raspy, yelling in a tiny, otherwise silent space. His tone was still filtered and quiet.  
“What about Otabek’s family?”  
“Hmm… good question. But Yurio, he’ll be freer without that burden.”

“Yuuri… don’t say that around other people.” Victor leaned in and kissed the shorter’s lips, his mouth lingering as his fingertips dragged across the ground, and he pulled away. “Don’t tell anyone this is how I guide you. I’m terrible. Gossip is terrible.”

“Oh? That’s a new one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My grandfather, who I was extremely close to similarly, died before I came out - or even thought to. Yuri, my prime projection, the object of affection… he should be so lucky.


	13. твои глаза (Your Eyes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s finally time for that rating promotion, ha. Mature New Year's special. Here’s to 2017. May she show us more mercy than her predecessor’s aftermath did.

Lazy Susan spun: the table’s rotating tray was in constant motion, feeding a voracious seven without stop. Victor, Yuuri, Otabek, Yuri, Phichit, Mila, and Sara surrounded the chestnut wood. The Chinese food in Vancouver was surprisingly good; this was already one of their favorite restaurants, as if they had all decided to write a tourist’s guide together. Their opinions of everything from local cuisine to street side parking was of the utmost importance. As an athletic team, they had a reputation to uphold. The reports of how they behaved when out together was easily countered by raving praise or passive disappointment through social media. They could hinder or harm business for _anyone,_ withstanding criticism by painting themselves pleasantly. A journalist would state they were loud and question Otabek’s presence (“Is he skating again or not?”) and they could retort, to millions of followers, that the service was horrid and the management was lousy. They could cast a shade of doubt to dispel rumors altogether, to guarantee their own privacy. They were always polite, they knew how to have fun, and they counteracted every critical or ludicrous headline impeccably fast. They were better at defending one another’s consumerist personas than they were at being a physically inclined group, shoveling rice with chopsticks and slurping noodles between bouts of friendly banter. They had already made plans for the rest of the week, hanging out and bonding during brief breaks. Tonight, they also drank. Even though Otabek wanted to drive himself and Yuri to the bar on his motorcycle, the latter took his rental car instead. This allowed the elder to take shots freely, meeting the level of his peers’ inebriation without hesitation. The long-haired blond had a beer early in the night, but its effects were virtually nonexistent after their huge meal. By the time they left, he would have blown a legal score on a breathalyzer without a second thought.

Otabek, on the other hand, was far gone. Suddenly, his English was unafraid. He spoke with everyone loudly, slurring and laughing. Yuri grinned, shaking his legs, but he wasn’t nervous: he kept imagining kicking up ice like a sparkling mist swirling around his body, clinging to tight, soft black fabric, tickling the back of his neck. He was rocking back and forth then, the small of his lower back and the top of his thighs tensing. His light skin was getting warmer, burning hot, until Otabek leaned back, crossing his arms for a second before wrapping one around Yuri. It started with a touch. Otabek copping a feel, a handful of Yuri’s rear in front of everyone. To their side, beneath the table but obviously. It was out of character if one focused on the elder’s arguably withdrawn demeanor, but it was, while not expected, entirely unsurprising to the younger. He knew the gentle deviance which clouded his lover’s mind, the comforting, protective obsession Otabek had with him. The aura was possessive, powerful. It drew him not just physically but emotionally, too. It was a part of their mental bond, a part of their romance. There was nothing of Otabek’s very respectful demeanor to hold him back now. His filter was entirely gone. As new to this world as they were, they were now refined. No more muffled whimpers at night keeping Yuuri and Victor awake in their adjacent hotel room. No more checking the locked doors to linked bathrooms before feeling free to whisper sweet nothings. The excitement of the freedom of their private home drove Yuri to the edge of his seat; Otabek wasn’t moving his hand.

Yuri knew what it looked like, his reaction to the other’s flirtatious advancements in front of all of their peers. The childish blushing, the chagrin whimpers. He was embarrassed. The strong little fairy of the Northeast, an Olympic champion, so weak and vulnerable. That’s what Otabek did to him, what _only_ Otabek could do to him. But never like this, never in front of anyone. Before everyone they knew. The reason that Otabek liked to take his time in life was the gratification of delay. If he waited long enough to do something, he’d eventually reach a point where the process was more exciting than the product. It regulated things like eating food, not permitting bingeing. It also dramatically enhanced more intimate affairs like sex. And Yurio always called him a stereotypical Scorpio because of his quiet demeanor, but his voracious appetite for affection was also orchestrated by the eccentric label. His soft, beautiful, perfect Pisces boyfriend deserved the positive reception: a grunt from being breathed on, a moan from being looked at, and a deep, seductive roar from simply being touched. The sensitivities of his crotch themselves were buzzed, tingling and eager. Otabek liked putting on that show; he liked feeling it too. It was some kind of bliss to him, and his always rather pure love for Yuri reached an inexplicable peak during that ascent towards climax. His chest kept rising and gliding, his breathing heavy as his thoughts so prematurely walked the path to a night of love making. They all said goodbye and it was entirely impossible for Otabek to gauge how loud he was exhaling (he wasn’t doing so abnormally). Was he blushing, drooling, was his stomach growling instead? He was high as a kite, but not on drugs.

They stumbled outside, and now Yuri was weighing one of Otabek’s arms over his shoulder by holding his heavier hand down by his neck, the other palm wrapped around his partner’s waist, steadying his walk as they approached the car. He opened the passenger side first, slopped Otabek’s body inside, secured his seat belt for him and even kissed his cheek while gently making sure his limbs were inside of the car before leaning back to shut him in. Yuri waved to Mila who was nearby getting into her car before walking around and slipping into the driver’s seat, locking the doors behind them. Secure, step by step; everything will be okay. Get home, Yuri. Seal everything up. And then once you’ve washed up, once you’ve slipped into something a little more comfortable, once Otabek’s sobered up…

But Otabek waited for no one. He started as soon as Yuri shimmied his faux fox covered shoulders, as soon as Yuri slid his grey denim jacket on and pushed the silver framed sunglasses up onto his face. He was innocent in his hoodie, black on black, hidden with his cheeks covered. Otabek pulled the glasses off as soon as Yuri pulled out onto the road, smiling, giggling to himself like an idiot. “Your eyes… Beautiful… Clear, like the sky… Like the sea... Oh, Yurochka… I’ll go anywhere for you, you’re so pure to me… Marry me…” His lips traced shapes on Yuri’s neck; the younger’s face was flush. He shivered violently, lightheaded suddenly. Otabek rambled, leaning over the automatic: “We’re lost, here… Canada… It’s just us, us… So close…” 

This continued for twenty minutes. That’s how long it took for Yuri to drive them home, a typically ten minute distance. By the end, he had only held the wheel with four fingers, his closer hand having been dragged for the taller’s fun long ago. For Otabek, it was perfect. To kiss his knuckles, to suckle his fingertips. It was lewd, it was a lot. Yuri was entertained and aroused, but worried. Always worried. He laughed at the thought of the man’s inevitably apologetic attitude, how invasive he would feel he was in retrospect the next day. By the time they were parked in the garage, he had been pulled over entirely. His palm was pressed against Otabek’s crotch.

“I know what you feel like, Bek.”  
“I’m so big for you, baby…”

Otabek was so gone, so oblivious to the need for privacy his sober self would have demanded. They were up the stairs a minute later. Yuri triple-checked that the car was locked, that the alarm was activated, and did the same for the secured entrance to their apartment. He helped Otabek to the couch, although the taller was capable enough by himself, and then raced through each room to drag all of the curtains. He was checking every window frame back in the living room, making sure they were safe, when he was grabbed from behind. It was rougher - somehow proof that Otabek was lucid enough to hold back, because he must have been at the restaurant. Compared to this. Compared to them, the noises. Yuri let out an acute sound like prey surrendering swiftly. Those firm arms squeezing his figure just the right amount, hands pushing their way down his front.

“Touch me.” Yuri whimpered pathetically, squeezing his thighs around Otabek’s wrist as soon as that warm palm of the elder’s pressed against his crotch. The touch sent a jolt throughout his body. He let out a pathetic cry, hunching his back and pressing his forehead against the window frame, but Otabek pulled his shoulders closer, sliding him around. His forehead dug into his lover’s bare shoulder instead, finding that the chiseled musculature of his olive torso had been revealed. Otabek must have stumbled and undressed while he was walking through their home so carefully. His soft, drawn out, sing-songy moans were unstoppable as his physical desires brought themselves to fruition. The taller let his hand drag along Yuri’s smooth sack from behind, two long fingers sliding beneath to rub his sensitive perineum, inching back towards his tight pucker. Otabek smiled devilishly as the hairs along his wrist and forearm pushed against Yuri’s immaculate pinkness, their signature bear hug more invasively heavenly than ever before. His bass-filled breath shot through the warm air as he whispered into Yuri’s ear, wetting his lips as his chest began to pound. “I need you.”

He was in his underwear now, gargantuan bulge taunting his lover. And with one fell swoop of his mischievous fingers, Yuri freed the other’s lengthy girth with ease. The throbbing thickness and its veiny curvature had his heart racing unbearably; the naturally alluring scent of masculine musk flooded his flared nostrils, leaving him drooling and humming before a grunt shot out of his throat - the two fingers slipped inside of him. Being distanced from and picked up was like a flash of light; he clung to Otabek’s build as he was dropped onto their bed, the strength of Otabek’s touch stripping him slowly and steadily. They were both naked, grinding, with the taller like a missionary between his legs; their warm crotches together in frottage, that heavy weight guarding him from above, controlling him, protecting him. A flexing forearm slipped between his thighs again, and this time, digits slid deeper and curled. They stimulated that special bundle of sensitive nerves with disgusting ease, making Yuri’s toes curl, his lower legs shaking. Like lightning; that’s how he felt. Otabek was all too familiar with the younger’s body. The pleasure was massive, ticklish; it was like being hit by lighting instead, left sensitive all over but only in the best ways. It was the true glory. Otabek didn’t mean to make Yuri finish, he only wanted to take care of his boy, but Yuri screamed and screamed louder, and Otabek loved it so he didn’t stop. 

By the time he came down from his high, Yuri knew it wouldn’t be a good night for full contact given Otabek’s status, but he knew how to satiate himself and please the man with simplicity. When he finally recovered, shaking his head to remove the stars from his field of vision, he guided Otabek to his back and slid down his body. The slender marble of his own milky white stomach was dirtied with light ropes clinging to the skin, but Yuri was a faithful lover in vowing to pleasure his partner, to pay back his debts, and above all, to masquerade his own hunger as true love. He was in love, he found taking his lover’s endowment into his mouth as immensely romantic, but the truth of the matter was that the Russian juggled the fury of his phallic hunger with much difficulty. Otabek should know. How often was Yuri between his legs since they entered this phase of their relationship? Every chance he got, and now as the flesh slipped between his lips—faster, louder, slicker, green eyes fixated upward—he wouldn’t last long. Not even alcohol could tug Otabek along, and thick ropes of warm semen flooded Yuri’s mouth not five dedicated minutes later, sputtered along his tongue with such power. Yuri swallowed every ounce, enjoyed every second of it, and entirely forgot the rest. They’d have to wake up in their own filth. The allure of fatigue and the comfort of one another’s embrace was too tempting to resist. He would have quite the story to tell when their friends asked what the commotion was about at dinner. He wouldn’t even have to tell it, if he smiled in just the right way.


	14. Jump

Yuri flew across the ice in figure eights and jumped for the sake of spinning. His energy was untempered, inspired by the anxiety of all things skating. The future of his career, how his lover would merge lifestyles with his own seamlessly - and there it was, the undying fantasy of Otabek realizing that he didn’t belong in an office, working the job of a businessman. No, his sweet charm was too filtered. He was too perfect to sell and to swindle. 

The Russian’s own ideas of his self were abrasive and harsh. He would always be outspoken, competitive, and rough around the interpersonal edges, but too often did he underestimate his own talent and hinder his own chances of success with a maladaptive confidence. The ego of an insecure achiever was as fragile as real frozen water, but the rink wasn’t the center of a sizable lake at the beginning of winter; the rink was sturdy, a blank canvas. Yuri wasn’t walking on eggshells, he was soaring on clouds.

The showers were empty. He had never considered washing, shampooing, and conditioning his hair at a gym before, but in the exclusivity and the privacy of his single, little stall, he cleaned himself. Quick, thin fingers. Long, blond hair. He stood under steam for half an hour, drying himself with a towel, with air, with a jog to the private locker he had thrown his bag into that morning. His phone was vibrating in a side pocket. A phone call, from Otabek.

“Hi, handsome.” Yuri’s voice was noticeably weak.  
“What’s wrong, Yurochka?”  
A bit of honesty never hurt anybody. “I’m tired.”  
“What can I do for you, baby boy?”  
“Can you ask Victor if we can push dinner back to tomorrow? I’m coming home right now. I just want to relax, tonight. Might be boring, but… I don’t know, I might regret it later–”  
“Don’t worry about it. I will. Are you alright?”  
“You’re the only one I tell this stuff. You know that, right?”

Yuri had rest his elbow atop the opposite arm sprawled around his torso then, a small smile painting itself across his milky white expression. Packing up at the gym didn’t take long, and neither did the trusty drive home in his rent-a-car. He checked every lock thrice until he was through the front door of their apartment, dropping his bags at the door and dragging his feet into Otabek’s makeshift office room. The taller was in white and red polka dot boxers, black socks, and a light grey muscle shirt. The sound of his fingertips pounding away at the keyboard helped Yuri put his problems into perspective. Everyone had a job to do. It was a blessing that he found passion in a workout, an adrenaline rush, and an athletic calling all in one.

“How was practice?” Otabek’s furrowed eyebrows regretted that his body couldn’t turn around right then and there. The younger understood, stripping down into his lime green briefs and pulling pajamas which hung from a storage rack onto his bottom. 

“Repetitive.” Yuri laughed, moving toward his busy companion and slipping onto his lap, wrapping his legs around the other’s waist and letting his head rest on his shoulder. Like a koala, this position was natural, and his small build and how it conveniently rested atop the chair as well was hardly a distraction. “I’m homesick. I hate Canada. I still think we should move here, though.”

“Time to retire?”  
“Ha-ha. Very funny.”  
“Being a superstar has got to be hard.”  
“You’re not immune, mister! Forget you used to skate already? Should stop pushing you around, with memory like that. You might fall!”

Otabek’s smile was subtle. His hands rubbed Yuri’s lower back, his lips pressing a series of soft kisses against one of the smaller’s earlobes. “Take a week off. Relax. Learn how to enjoy silence. Mila stopped by today, but I told her you weren’t here. Maybe she’ll come tomorrow.”

“Maybe you’ll come tomorrow.” Yuri’s voice was mischievous, playful, and too flippant to be serious. Otabek laughed loudly, grunting in the same breath. “I wish.”


	15. True Colors

The longer Otabek stayed in Vancouver, the more spoiled he became. Working digitally, from halfway across the world, was convenient to say the least. Still, the world of business was monotonous. He realized, slowly but surely, that he was far too young to settle into a job which didn’t sit well with him. Although he didn’t regret retiring per se, he certainly longed for the excitement figure skating provided. But Otabek wasn’t the only one who was changing; as his broad-shouldered, barrel-chested build began taking impressive shape, Yuri’s light locks only grew longer. Yuri didn’t mind standing how he would, wearing lazy clothing, and putting his hair up in whichever way he’d like, and Otabek didn’t mind holding hands in public and playing footsies at Starbucks. Not anymore.

For Yuri, skating was more of a dance nowadays. It was impossible to not be competitive, at such a young age. The athlete in him could _never_ die off completely. However, the motions felt much like an art and an art alone; finely trained legs, acute feet and sharp ankles all knew the moves by heart, so he felt the music, the crowd, and the energy inside of him instead of dwelling on and obsessing over the way his body moved. It came naturally, and attempting anything less made the sport feel redundant and like a waste of time.

They pooled their money together and purchased a penthouse condominium in the heart of the city. If they couldn’t go home, then they at least wanted to see the mountains when they woke up in the morning. Eventually, Yuri stopped missing home. He would video chat with family and stop answering their questions about visiting Moscow. His English got better and his fears of Russia’s growing homophobic culture grew. Yuri couldn’t hide his identity anymore. Anyone who had access to the Internet could figure it out, by now. It wasn’t a secret. 

Otabek’s English improved, too. He studied hard, tried his best to not speak Russian in public. Of course, when the baristas at the aforementioned Starbucks would assume he was Chinese, he’d set the record straight with a few deep, grumbly, foreign swears in his lover’s direction. Yuri, who understood him clearly in their mother tongue, would giggle and tell onlookers about how hilarious Otabek was. His lighter skin told the presumption-driven employees that the language _wasn’t_ a Chinese dialect. Yuri thought the assumptions on somebody’s face were amusing to watch take form.

“So… how’s the cat?!” Victor had to fill the silence with nothingness while finding the most invasive way to lay his limbs across his hosts’ couch. Yuri, with his hair up and back out of his face, was shoveling vegetable lo mein into his mouth with chopsticks; Otabek laughed between bouts of tearing at well-seasoned, thoroughly cooked pieces of meat on wooden sticks. 

“Are you gonna eat?” Yuri asked their guest, voice muffled and strained because of the food which occupied about four-fifths of his mouth. “He’s good. Adjusting.”

“I had _three_ egg rolls!” Victor defended himself, throwing his hands back dramatically.

“Where’s Katsuki?” Otabek asked, motioning to wipe his mouth with the back of his wrist but being blocked by Yuri’s napkin-carrying hand.

“In Japan, right now. Seeing family.”  
“Why didn’t you go with him?”  
“Because _somebody_ has to stick around and pay the rent!”  
“Why don’t you just… buy something, like we did?”  
“You know, Otabek… the endorsement deals are worth much more when you typically take the _gold_ home.”

Yuri coughed. “Don’t insult your boyfriend like that! What’s your problem?”  
“I’m just saying! I don’t know what kind of money you needed for a place like this–”  
“Millions, don’t worry about it–”

Victor stopped and squinted at the younger. A millionaire teenager. He hated that it was true. “But I don’t know how long we plan on staying, either.”

A moment of silence; Otabek continued to eat, and Yuri wiped his hands, licking his lips messily before speaking. “I don’t know if I’m going home.”

“What!?” Victor leaned forward in his seat, eyes wide. “What do you mean?”  
“I mean… I talk to everyone plenty. If someone dies, I’ll go home for that. But I don’t want to live in Russia again. We’re such a cutthroat people. Gritty aesthetics and chess prodigies… precise. Less bombs, more sharp minds. I get it. That’s the threat of it… cyberwarfare, whatever…”  
“What are you on about, Plisetsky?”  
“I wanna live somewhere I can be happy.”

“Yeah, me too.” Otabek said, his voice disgruntled from grease. “I quit my job.”

Yuri’s eyes widened. “Uhh… what?” Yuri wanted to ask why he hadn’t been told in private first, but they weren’t a typical couple living paycheck to paycheck, so it wasn’t truthfully that big of a deal. It had the potential to end up a very, very good thing. But it was certainly news.

“Yeah, I hated it. And there’s no point if we’re giving Canada a try.”

“What, you got him to hate Uzbekistan too?”

Yuri squinted. “It’s Kazakhstan, and no. We’re just young. Pretty vision of the West, and it’s… just as conservative there, too. I wanna be decadent. I wanna be… gay and okay.”

“Gay and okay? At your caliber of celebrity, you can be ‘gay and okay’ anywhere, Yuri.”  
“Definitely _not_ true. You just don’t care about what people think. But it’s _not_ safe.”  
“Okay, but what about–”  
“His parents are nice. And understanding. But with his family…” Yuri took a sip of water, giving himself a moment to think.

“It isn’t easy,” Otabek began, taking a deep breath. “To be a fallen Muslim. Not where I’m from, at least.”

“On a brighter note, we’re happy here.” Yuri said, leaning back, crossing his arms, and putting his feet up on the glass coffee table. “Can’t do much with life but take it one step at a time. Follow your gut, y’know? Isn’t that why you banged in a shared hotel room once?”

“That’s not fair! I thought you were asleep!” Victor wasn’t amused. The two went back and forth for half an hour, Otabek occasionally chiming in where he felt appropriate. They began to drink, lightly, and Victor took to a guest room to pass out in peace. In the master bedroom, Otabek wore boxer briefs and cuddled up against Yuri’s backside, stroking the boy’s cloth covered thighs and rubbing his bare stomach.

“I’ll get a new job soon, I promise…”  
“Don’t. Just be my manager.”  
“What about Yakov?”  
“Yakov’s my coach. I need a manager. Someone else who goes everywhere with me... but is… nice” Yuri chuckled softly.  
“And do what?”  
“I don’t know. Make my phone calls.” He turned around and smiled against Otabek’s lips, pressing a peck there gently. “And touch my butt sometimes.”

“Happily.”


End file.
